I think the natural border is the stream under the bridge I’m crossing right now.
The “Welcome to Texas” sign gives me confirmation, and the car license plates strengthen what I think.
It’s still very humid and green, and I continue on Highway 90. If I keep going like this, I’ll reach Houston. Houston is a big city, and in big cities, I tend to get lost, so it’s better to turn off on one of the side roads heading north. A few more miles, and there’s a turnoff for College Station. I’ll take a hotel there and continue west tomorrow on the side roads.
Finally, the air is getting drier, such a relief, after almost a month on roads with humid weather. I had forgotten what it’s like to ride in normal weather. It’s because I’m moving away from the coastline. The landscape is changing and becoming drier. I continue riding, passing herds of cattle enclosed by white wooden fences.
It’s still early, I’m approaching the town. Traffic lights and more traffic lights. Shopping centers on the right and left, fast food restaurants. “Welcome to the city,” I tell myself.
I stop in front of the door of a small motel, the door opens by itself, and I can see it’s a nice place. The receptionist looks at me and the motorcycle. I hurry to her so she won’t get scared and take a room for one night. I unload all the gear and put it on a cart. Before I even organize my bags in the room, I throw myself on the bed, what a joy.
A shower, then I’m off to grab some pizza and will go back to sleep.
‘m returning tired. Before I fall asleep, I transfer the pictures from the camera to the tablet, turn off the light, and fall asleep like a baby.
Six in the morning:
It’s still dark outside. The coffee machine in the room makes me coffee, filling the room with a pleasant coffee aroma.
A thought crosses my mind: Some people, when they go on a trip or journey, know exactly when they’re leaving, where they’ll sleep every night, and some even book the hotel in advance. Yes, yes, I’ve met people who book hotels in advance, how strange. They know what they’ll see and where they’ll visit every day, and also know the exact return date.
I open the map. There are a few options. I choose the option of small roads along the farms.
Today, I will head towards Blanco Park.
I get on the motorcycle and leave the city. I let out a roar of joy in my helmet. I’ve already prepared some country music, and I feel on top of the world.
sign of humidity, the air is dry, and I’m not sweating while riding. Such a joy, the view is amazing.
I stop to take pictures.
A big pickup truck sees me and stops a few meters behind. While it’s backing up, I think: maybe I’m doing something wrong by taking pictures here. “Hey buddy, do you need help? I have a gallon of gas if you need it,” he asks. “No thanks, I’m just taking pictures, but I really appreciate it,” I reply. He gives me a thumbs-up and continues. I keep riding, stop again to take pictures, and again someone stops by to ask if I need help. There are good people in Texas. I pass small towns, farms, it’s four in the afternoon, I didn’t notice how time flew. I need to find a place to set up the tent.
I stop to buy a few tools I’m missing for the motorcycle. On the way out, I see a nice, old pickup truck parked next to me. A couple gets out of the truck, and I say, “You have a really nice vehicle.” A conversation develops between us, and I ask, “Maybe by chance you know where I can set up a tent?” I read that in Texas it’s not allowed to set up a tent everywhere, especially not on private land. “You can set up at our farm,” he says. “Uli,” he extends his hand, “Harel,” I introduce myself. “I’m Meggy.” We shake hands and agree to meet at a restaurant nearby until they finish buying the fan belt for the truck.
“I am going to a restaurant based on Uli’s directions, parking the motorcycle in front of the wooden railing of the restaurant. I open the restaurant door, the light is yellowish. At the bar, four men are sitting drinking beer from a glass mug. A young guy with a small towel on his shoulder is serving the tables around, the sounds of utensils mixing with the music in the background. I order a beer and a hamburger, then sit outside at a table facing the motorcycle, wondering to myself: Am I dreaming or is this reality?
At a table nearby, a man sits with his two grown daughters. ‘Where are you from?’ he asks me. I tell him about my journey and plans, which intrigues him. I can hear him telling his daughters, who look at me with smiles and admiration. He walks over to inspect the motorcycle, impressed by the accessories and the number of bags attached to it. The hamburger arrives with fries and a glass of beer. Meanwhile, the pickup truck with the nice couple arrives, they order beer, and we chat about Texas and the truck. ‘Let’s move before it gets dark,’ Uli says. I ride behind the pickup truck, in the motorcycle mirror I can see the sun setting, casting golden rays onto the road and the hills. From the road, we turn onto a gravel path and reach the farm.
I set up the tent in the last light. Uli calls me from the barn and pours beer they make themselves. We sit outside the barn, the three of us, drinking amazing beer, and more beer. Before I go to sleep, ‘Tomorrow at 8:00, come eat breakfast with us,’ Uli says.”
“I wake up before sunrise, take a photo, and fold the tent. Breakfast is ready. Three cute dogs greet me, and we sit in the kitchen of the charming house, a feeling of joy and happiness overwhelms me.
Nine in the morning – I get on the motorcycle, the air is still cool, I ride slowly on the gravel path and connect to a narrow road, farms along the way, small wineries. I want to reach the town of Bandera.”
“Texas’s Cowboy Capital: That’s what it says online.
I arrive in the town, the time is 1:30 PM. I continue riding along the streets of the town, and see that the life of the town is happening on the main street, crowded with stores selling agricultural equipment, work clothing shops. I enter one of the workwear stores, Carhartt, Wrangler, Levis, and cowboy boots, all sold as work clothes. The parking lots in front of the shops look like a gathering of ranchers, I see them gathering by the cars and talking.
A good time to eat.
The restaurant Don Chepes, sounds interesting. I enter the restaurant, the bar is full, I sit at a table near the window. Before I order, I look at the tables around me, everyone is eating a similar dish, with black beans and things I don’t recognize. That’s what I want, I point to the dish I see on the table next to me. The waiter says the name of the dish with a heavy southern accent and writes it down. What did he say? I try to repeat the name of the dish, but can’t understand the heavy accent. I look around, pleasant music, a wild west atmosphere, and the food is delicious. I finish eating and continue sitting, just because I feel like it.”
“Alright, I need to continue. I get on the motorcycle and ride west, to the Los Maples Nature Reserve. Just before dark, I arrive at the campsite in the reserve.
$25 and I have a spot for my tent, showers with hot water. How nice, a hot and long shower after a long day of riding. On the stove, I cook dinner and stay sitting on the bench, just sitting and watching the RVs next to me, listening to the sounds of the animals around me. In the campground, there is a large forest with tall trees, and my tent is placed at the edge of the campground, right next to the trees.
It’s 11:00 PM, I go into the tent to sleep.
It’s already 9:00 AM, and I’m still curled up in my sleeping bag. I slept deeply and a lot, I don’t think I woke up in the middle of the night, not even to pee. I was really tired. I force myself to get up. Where did I leave my toiletries? Ah, they’re on the table outside. I use the drinking water bottle to brush my teeth, make coffee, open a map, and start planning today’s route. ‘Big Bend National Park,’ I read about it a few days ago, looks like a beautiful place, I want to get there.
“I finish getting ready, get on the motorcycle, and head west.
Onto a narrow road that winds between low hills, passing through small towns. The only thing I feel right now is tranquility.
I move westward, the landscape becomes arid, the green vegetation turns sparse and dry. The towns look dusty, I’m still not in the desert, but the landscape tells me I’m on the right path.
Every day I buy fresh food for dinner.”
“I park the motorcycle on the sidewalk near the supermarket, always trying to leave it in a safe place. I buy an avocado, tomato, and vegetables for a stew I like to make in the evening. I walk back to the motorcycle, and before continuing, I lean on the bike and drink a cold soda. A large white pickup truck is parked in the lot, an older woman and a man walk past me, and the man says, ‘What a beautiful motorcycle you have.’ A conversation develops, and I ask if they know of any nearby campgrounds. From the conversation, I understand that the man is the woman’s son. The son explains how to get to the campground, saying it’s an hour and a half from here. ‘Thank you,’ I say, and they walk into the supermarket. I get ready to get on the motorcycle and hit the road, just before I release the clutch. ‘You can set up your tent at our farm,’ the son says. ‘Weston,’ he introduces himself. Wow, how nice. I wait for them to finish their shopping and then follow them to the farm.”
“I wake up early. The sun will rise soon, the water on the stove is boiling. I drink a cup of coffee and think about the ride to Big Bend. A long way ahead. Weston comes by to say goodbye before he leaves for work. ‘Leave the gate open when you leave,’ he says. I head out on the road, and the scenery changes, becoming desert-like.
I stop by the side of the road to photograph the vast expanses. Whoops, a motorcycle passes me, turns around, and comes back to me. BMW GS 1200. ‘Hey, I’m JAY,’ he says. ‘I’m Harel.’ Immediately, we connect. I tell him about my plans to ride to Big Bend and from there to Los Angeles. Jay tells me he lives right by Big Bend National Park and offers that I sleep at his place. I’m happy about the offer, and we continue riding together.
It’s a long road, and if I’m not mistaken, we still have 400 miles ahead.
By evening, we arrive at the caravan where he lives. I really like the place; it’s calm and peaceful here. Jay talks about the trips he’s done in Central America and just got back from a long riding stint. It’s great to meet people like Jay.
We stay talking and exchanging experiences until the late hours of the evening. He mentions that he leaves this place in the summer when it gets too hot to bear and comes back during other times of the year. We talk about the possibility of riding to Mexico together when I return in two months.
Before another 1150 miles to Los Angeles, it’s probably best I go to sleep.”
